


And When You Find Your Place, I'll Be There Beside You

by monopolizeme



Series: He Was Pointing At the Moon but I Was Looking At His Hand [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Established Relationship, M/M, Road Trip, quiet conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizeme/pseuds/monopolizeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I called my dad this morning,” Stiles begins. He regards the carnival lights in the distance, the slowly moving Ferris wheel. He can feel Derek’s eyes moving over the side of his face. “I thought I’d tell him what happened, you know? What with-“ he gestures at the encompassment of his face and throat, a small vague movement. “I just thought it’d be better to let tell him now, without having him see it first and then me having to explain it all.”</p><p>Derek doesn't respond right away and when he does his voice sounds oddly calm, accepting, as if he has readied himself to compliantly receive whatever Stiles is about to tell him.</p><p>“What did he say?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And When You Find Your Place, I'll Be There Beside You

 "Has Derek told you yet?" Scott had asked one day.

They were gearing up for lacrosse practice, and the locker room smelled of boy sweat and that eager pulse that always seemed to hum through the air whenever they were preparing for a game.  Stiles had been sitting on the bench, curled over as he pulled at his shoelaces, twisting the laces around his knuckles and watching the impress splotch red into his pale skin.

“Has he told you yet?” Scott asked and Stiles halted in his awkwardly bent position, feeling his elbows digging into the sides of his waist as he looked up at Scott, neck twisting at a slightly odd angle.

"Told me what?"

Scott had looked strange and uncomfortable, his jaw shifting back and forth in that nervous habit of his, chewing over his words, and Scott rarely looked out of sort in his own skin, that was Stiles’ job. Or at least  _was_. Now felt different, now was beginning to feel  _right_  and his skin didn’t feel so tight and his bones didn’t feel so big and Stiles was starting to understand the rapid fire of his heartbeat and the way his pulse spiked when he was alone in bed, staring up at the ceiling as the darkness swelled around him like a giant beast, thick and muffled and pushing into his ears. Because now more often than not there was a hand to reach over and clasp strong fingers around his wrist, steadying Stiles’ arms as they shook by his sides. A warm breath ghosting against his ear, “It’s alright, Stiles, I’m right here, right here, shh, shh, listen to me breathe, Stiles,” and “that’s it, right, yes, that’s good Stiles, feel my pulse, match it to mine” –

Stiles could feel the blood starting to throb in his skull from being bent over for so long, and he was sure that there were going to be bruises left against his hipbones because of his stupid, bony elbows but somehow he couldn’t move and he was doing that thing again, that erratic throbbing pulse slamming against his ear drums.

“Told me-?“

 "That he loves you."

And that had taken Stiles aback, because he didn't think that it was anyone's business to talk about  _that_ , to talk about him and Derek like others were a part of their relationship and had any right to speak on it. And perhaps Scott liked to talk about personal relationships like it should be public knowledge  but Stiles didn't think that  _he_  wanted to; and this was different than what Scott and Allison had because this was  _Derek_  and Stiles wasn't sure that Derek would ever be able to say the words. And Stiles was okay with that, because Derek had other ways of telling Stiles that this was real, not always with words and sometimes his hands were a little too rough when they pinned Stiles down into the mattress, and sometimes his voice shook when he pressed his lips against Stiles’ open mouth and sometimes Derek didn’t always answer Stiles’ texts right away but it was enough for Stiles, it was. Because sometimes Derek held Stiles’ hand when he didn’t think that anyone was looking and sometimes he did just when he  _did_  know that people were looking and Stiles didn’t think that he needed to justify that to anyone; it wasn’t anyone else’s business.

"It's only been seven months." Stiles said, still a little unnerved and shaken but trying to shrug it off, shoelaces digging into his palms and the curl of his fingers as he looked away from Scott and tugged and pulled and watched as the tips of his fingers turned red from the lack of circulation.

He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone when he and Derek finally decided to acknowledge that what they had between them was something that they wanted to keep, to make real with both words and unashamed actions. Even though everyone had already known that Derek and Stiles spent lazy afternoons together, making out on the couch or against the wall or sometimes hiked up against the kitchen counter. Everyone knew that it was  _physical_ but then Stiles realized that he wanted Derek as something more than just weekend frantic make-out sessions and sloppy blow jobs. And that had suddenly made everything precariously special and fragile and Stiles didn’t  _want_  anyone’s opinions.

Because  _of course_  everyone would have something to say, of course, of course, because this was  _Derek_  and everyone already had their own preconceived notions of what Derek was and what Derek did or did not deserve.

Allison had been the most polite about it, the topic of Derek still a little too raw-edged and sore. She had looked away and said softly, “It's not my place to say.”

And Lydia shrugged like she could not be bothered to care, “Whatever suits you.”

And Scott had looked torn but said, “I don't understand it but you’re my best friend, Stiles. It's what you want.”

And his dad had shaken his head and put his hand over his mouth as if he is trying to hold back the words but, “This isn't what I want for you, Stiles, not at all.”

And Stiles realized then, that it  _didn’t matter_ , it didn’t. Because this was Derek and him and it was what  _they_ wanted and Derek seemed to want this and  _god_  did Stiles, maybe more than anything. And it wasn’t something loud and manic, what they had, because they didn’t speak of it often and sometimes they held hands in the market and sometimes they did not speak at all, sometimes there was no  _need_  for words. And they were okay with that; Derek didn’t mind when Stiles lapsed into quiet and Stiles was growing to like the silence, it didn’t always hurt his ears as much.

So Stiles had gone to Derek's apartment that night instead of his own house, slipping out of his shoes as he made his way into the darkened bedroom.

Derek had been asleep in the center of his bed, arm tucked beneath his head as he lay on his side. He was wearing what looked to be one of Stiles’ old shirts, the one that was too big for Stiles, slightly ragged and faded; he only wore it now when he slept. But sometimes he would leave it over at Derek's because it didn't make sense to drag it back and forth. And besides, he had plenty of bed shirts at his own house. So sometimes Stiles would leave it behind and when he returned to Derek's it would end up smelling slightly less like Stiles, something more like damp earth and generic shampoo and a faint spicy musk that did not belong to Stiles.

He crawled in beside Derek, curled up on his side as he watched Derek's sleeping face, the feather of his eyelashes and the way his lips settled together comfortably. Derek opened his eyes, breathing still soft.

They lay there quietly, and Stiles liked the way Derek's breath fanned out across his mouth, tasting like toothpaste. Stiles edged a little closer, letting their knees press together and feeling the warmth from even that slight a touch.

Derek’s mouth tugged at the corner.

“Hey.”

And Stiles returned, “Hey,” just as softly.

Stiles twitched, restless with the unspoken question fluttering in his mouth and Derek’s eyes grew quietly fond, recognizing the shift in Stiles.

Unable  _not_  to, Stiles lifted his hand and rested it against the collar of the shirt that Derek was wearing, thumbed along the stitching encircling his throat.

“Mine?” He questioned, mouth teasing at the corners.

Derek hesitated for a moment, eyes flickering down before lifting back to Stiles.

“Which one?” he asked quietly.

And Stiles' heart had stopped at that. Because that was the first time that  _Derek_  had been the one to bring up that topic, of  _belonging_  to one another.

Stiles licked his lips. “Both?” He asked, a little nervous and hopeful and hating how apparent that was, in the pitch of his voice and the heartbeat flutter against his ribs.

Derek smiled, slow and easy.

“Yeah,” he said, and the way he formed the word made it sound like something special and meaningful, something he wanted, something that made him  _happy_  to want.

And Stiles believed him.

-

On Sunday, Stiles rolls over on his side, doesn’t open his eyes to the shafts of morning light filtering through the lace curtains of their room and reaches out, fingers shuffling sleepily across the bed sheets, searching across the still-warm fabric and-

Derek is there beside him, arms encircling and dragging Stiles close and Stiles smiles and rubs his nose in the warm hollow space of Derek’s throat.

“Here to stay?” he murmurs.

Blunt fingernails drag up the length of his spine, slow and almost reverent, dipping into the tiny spaces between the knobs of Stiles’ spine, fingers exploring the canvas of Stiles’ back and resting in the slots between his ribs and beneath his shoulder blades, resting on the scattering of moles raised slightly and marking their presence.

And Derek says, “Always.”

-

They wait an extra day before taking back to the highway, back to Beacon Hills, back to friends and betas and questions and just  _back._  It’s Derek’s suggestion, as Stiles is pulling his shirt over his head and down his arms, Derek’s hands hovering along the edges of the fabric as he helps ease it over Stiles’ stiff and wounded shoulder.

“Why?” Stiles had asked, the question muffled beneath the confines of his shirt. He cocked his head to the side once it popped free, as he watched Derek curiously, although not terribly perturbed by it.

Derek shook his head, eyes settling distantly below Stiles’ chin.

“It will give you more time to heal.”

-

Derek drives and Stiles talks and sometimes Derek talks back and sometimes he just hums in reply. Stiles will smile over at him, put his hand on the back of Derek’s neck, fingers massaging the smooth skin and knotted muscle and Derek will rest his hand on Stiles’ knee and Stiles will talk some more, about the homework he’s put off doing and the mechanic that he’s been taking his jeep to. He thinks the guy might be trying to swindle him and Derek says “You can use mine.” and Stiles grins and says, “Rich boy, like I can afford that.” and Derek’s mouth pulls at the corner like he knows that it’s true.

They stop off a little on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, Derek pulling over at a diner because Stiles asked him to and the sun is waning in the horizon, painting the sky hues of pale pink and blue and a tinge of orange if Stiles squints hard enough to see. They’re standing by the hood of the car and finishing off the last of their meal, napkins and white paper bags resting on top of the sleek black surface of the Camaro. It’s quiet and perfect and Stiles is good, he is.  They’re going home and for the first time since starting this road trip, Stiles is perfectly okay with that.

Because Stiles is going home with Derek.

The sun is drifting down, lower and lower into the horizon but Stiles is facing it, squinting slightly against the thin light. There is a sort of blissed out smile on his face, and it’s settled into the corners of his eyes, where the skin is crinkled and bunched around the thick smudge of his eyelashes.

There is a fair in the distance, he cannot see it very well but there are lights twinkling beneath the pale orange sky. And there is a Ferris wheel, arching high above the tents, above the sounds of music and voices that Stiles cannot hear but knows is there. He thinks that maybe Derek can hear them, the people and the ring of laughter coming from excited children. Or maybe it is too far away for even him.

“Do you want to go?” Stiles asks, motioning with his chin towards the carnival lights.

Derek follows the movement with his eyes, keeps it there like he is contemplating something. He turns his face away eventually, gaze falling to the ground.

“No, it’s okay.” he says quietly.

Stiles has come to learn the subtle cues of what comprises Derek Hale, the way he slumps his shoulders forward in thought or reluctance. Hands folded in his pockets means that he is not wary of threat and when he doesn’t seem to be able to look at Stiles, Stiles knows that Derek is thinking about something that has to do with him, with  _them_.

And Stiles might be concerned about that, at a different time, but he isn’t now. Now feels good, feels safe and warm and the sun is gentle on his face, even though his skin still tightens and pulls in a way that itches across his left cheek bone.

“We could, if you wanted to.” Stiles says, slants his gaze teasingly over to Derek. “Want to take a ride in a glass box, see what the world looks like from up high?”

Derek’s mouth tugs at that, in what Stiles thinks may be a wistful kind of smile that flickers in his eyes as well.

“No,” he murmurs. He looks up at Stiles, head tilted slightly, the right side of his face shadowed. “I’m good here.”

Derek offers a reassuring smile, but it’s small and distracted and he turns his face away, hunches up his shoulders again.

And so Stiles waits. He can do that, wait for Derek to form the words in his head, to shape together what he wants to say because Stiles is  _happy_ , and he thinks that Derek might be shifting closer to him, might be close enough for Stiles to reach out and touch his wrist or the small patch of skin at his lower back, beneath his cotton shirt.

“I’m going to miss having you all to myself,” Stiles murmurs, looking down at his shoes in the dirt.

And Derek says,

 “I love you.”

Stiles’ throat locks. It’s difficult to swallow somehow, he has to open his mouth to force the muscles to relax and Stiles doesn’t think that he can breathe, that he  _should_  breathe. Because the words hanging in the air between them feel as if they are made of glass, and if Stiles breathes he’ll disturb the air and the words will shatter and fall scattered around his shoes.

His eyelashes flicker and he squints a little more, draws the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth, hesitating.

And then meets Derek’s eyes.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find but Derek is looking at him quiet and honest. He doesn’t look scared, or regretful, as if he thinks having said the words out loud was a mistake. He’s just regarding Stiles and Stiles recognizes the look in Derek’s eyes.

_Trust._

Stiles lets his lip drag free from the soft grip of his teeth and his gaze falls away. He nods, distantly.

“I know.”

They stay like that for a while, not talking, Stiles breathing carefully as he stares at the dirt around his shoes and counts the scuff marks made around edges of the rubber and mesh fabric. Eventually Derek moves closer, allows his shoulder to rest against Stiles’, his boot nudging gently beside Stiles’ right shoe in the dirt.

“I called my dad this morning,” Stiles begins. He regards the carnival lights in the distance, the slowly moving Ferris wheel. He can feel Derek’s eyes moving over the side of his face. “I thought I’d tell him what happened, you know? What with-“ he gestures at the encompassment of his face and throat, a small vague movement. “I just thought it’d be better to tell him now, without having him see it first and then me having to explain it all.”

Derek doesn’t respond right away and when he does his voice sounds oddly calm, accepting, as if he has readied himself to compliantly receive whatever Stiles is about to tell him.

“What did he say?”

Stiles nibbles at the inside of his cheek. His gaze flickers to Derek’s face and his eyes seem so much paler in the dying sunlight, fragments of yellow green around the tiny black pupils.

“He was pretty pissed.” Stiles gives a short huff, cranes his neck forward and tilts his chin. “He said I needed to stop, to get out of this. That it was too dangerous and that I had to accept that I couldn’t – I’m just seventeen, right? I mean, it’s not like I’m supposed to be living like this. With werewolves and goblins like it’s a freaking fun fest. I’m still in high school.”

Stiles looks at Derek, and he thinks his face might look a little desperate. But Derek watches him passively, gives a barely recognizable nod of his head.

“What did you say?”

Stiles sucks in his bottom lip again, draws it in tight beneath the edges of his teeth and tastes the remains of Cola and salt.

He turns away.

“I said that I couldn’t,” and his chest feels tight and heavy now, all locked up and compressed with words that he  _wants_ relinquish from the confines of his mouth.

Then Stiles looks at Derek fully and says, “I told him that I loved you. That you loved me.”

Derek’s hand curls around Stiles’ wrist, his palm resting flat against the hood of the car.

“You knew,” he says.

“Of course I knew,” Stiles replies faintly. “You thought I didn’t?”

Derek shakes his head.

“No. I didn’t know that  _I_  did.”

Stiles can’t help the little smile that pulls slowly at his mouth.

“I want you to know that this is it for me,” Stiles tells him. “I’m in this. For keeps. I plan on keeping you for as long as you’ll let me.”

Derek’s fingers slide over the back of Stiles’ hand, links their fingers together and Stiles allows his hand to be eased off the smooth surface of the car, lets their joined hands hang loosely against their hips, pressed together now.

“Is that a marriage proposal?” Derek inquires,  and when Stiles ducks his face down in embarrassment, chancing a quick look at his face, Derek is smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that teasing way of his that always manages to make Stiles’ heart speed up and tumble to a stop against his ribcage.

Stiles thinks that he may be blushing.

“That’s not-“

“I want that.” Derek says softly, halting the messy flow of words from breaking clumsily from Stiles’ mouth. “It doesn’t have to be – not a  _marriage_  thing, Stiles, stop that, your heart is going to beat out of your  _chest_.”

And Stiles knows that, he does, but his mouth is open slightly and he’s breathing fast because he hadn’t been thinking that far ahead but – it’s not as terrifying as Stiles thought it would be, the idea of being steadfast and locked to someone for the rest of his life. Not if it’s with Derek. He wants that, it’s like an afterthought tumbling into realization and  _god_  does he want that.

“Stiles-“ Derek tugs at his hand, so that Stiles has to stumble forward and Derek catches him around the waist, hands curling steady and firm over his hips and he rights Stiles against him. He’s still leaning against the hood of the car, and Stiles is situated between his feet, knees pressing snug and Stiles rests slightly-trembling hands on Derek’s chest, tightens his fingers in the fabric.

“I want this too,” Derek tells Stiles, eyes trained upon his and Stiles feels like he’s too thin and light, a nervous vapor caught in the bones of Derek’s hands and seeping into his pores. “I don’t care about titles or labels. I just know that I want this here with you, I don’t want anything else. And I think that we can-” he sets his mouth firm and Stiles wants to touch his lips, coax them open. Derek’s next words come quietly, a little unsteady, “I think we can make it, Stiles. Don’t you- I think we  _can_.”

And Stiles breathes out, breathes out happiness and relief and the calmness swells in his bones, pushing against his veins and beneath his skin, sliding into his lips as they break into a slow smile. He says,

“We already have.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading through this series. I hope that you have enjoyed. :)
> 
> And I want to thank Cat for making an absolutely beautiful graphic dedicated to this series. Please do go [see it here](http://sinyhale.tumblr.com/post/51992149688/sterek-gfx-giveaway-1day-31-31-requested)! It is utterly wonderful and so touching.


End file.
